Caretaker
by themysteryvanishing
Summary: Short-and-sweet friendship piece. Happens after "The Truth Hurts" and, ah, ignores Season 5. Myka's home from surgery, and still undergoing treatment.


"Breakfast!" Claudia announced by way of greeting, arms laden with a bag of formula and medical supplies as she let herself into Myka's room that morning at the bed and breakfast.

Myka, who was finally home from another trip to the hospital and had awoken hours ago with nausea and the furthest thing from an appetite, scrunched up her nose in protest. Pete would've gotten more of a fight out of her, cancer or not, everyone knew, so the job of hooking up Myka's PICC line to a new bag of milky-white nutrients had gone to Claudia. Pale yellow sunlight jumped across the carpet as she threw open the curtains. Myka, pale and sleepy, flopped a corner of the quilt over her face.

"I'd hardly call that stuff food," she muttered from her hiding spot.

"Maybe not, but I tweaked your machine so it doesn't squawk as much, thereby optimizing potential nap-time for you," Claudia continued. "Who _else_ is smart enough to do that? Answer: nobody."

Myka squinted at the young woman's silhouette from under the quilt. "Thank you, Claude."

Claudia drew up a chair and set the bags upon it as she donned a pair of plastic gloves. The quilted lump that was Myka sunk in sighed resignation. "Checklist?"

Claudia cleared her throat. "Bag temperature normalization: check. Hands washed: check. Gloves donned: check. Expiration date: not for a while, and let's hope you're not still using this stuff by then, 'cause I'm dragging you to a Dead Rent performance, like it or not."

Myka chuckled softly and drew back the blanket, exposing her left bicep, which was various shades of purple, green, and yellow. From it snaked a taped-over intravenous tube. Claudia, who had found out only after near-singlehandedly saving the Warehouse that Myka was sick when the surgery had warranted an extended hospital stay and Pete couldn't lie to save his life, had jumped at the chance to help. The Warehouse had taught her a few things in recent months; if one of its agents was hurting, so was the Warehouse, and by extension, so was Claudia. Either that or, Claudia had also considered, the ache she felt so acutely these days came from the realization that she was exactly where she needed to be. As the Warehouse needed its agents, so she needed her family, alive and well.

Claudia leaned in, delicately grasping Myka's arm, and examined the bruises. "You might be due for another heparin flush soon," she said quietly, eyes roving blood-marbled skin. "You've made it this far. I refuse to lose you to a clot this late in the game."

Myka, eyes heavy-lidded and head wrapped in a lumpy, crocheted hat Abigail had made for her (it had been the new bed and breakfast owner's third attempt with the crochet needle, something she'd found time for aside from all the preparations she'd made for Myka's return from the hospital—shower guardrail, new slippers, and a mattress warmer, to name a few—Myka had accepted the grey-yarned hat with tears in her eyes), found herself short one witty reply and simply nodded, contenting herself with the realization that it was a new day, and she was still alive.

She sighed as Claudia readied the new bag and reset the pump, and was pleased to notice the machine beeped three times less than it usually did. Claudia winked and resumed smoothing out the tubing. The pump whirred.

"Drink up, me hearty," Claudia said with a smile as she gathered up her things and made to leave.

Myka nodded sleepily. The night had taken its toll on her and she was eager for better sleep, but—

"Hey, Claudia?" she called out, croaky from disuse and a sudden upheaval of emotions. Auburn hair whipped and felt-bottomed Chucks stopped short at the request.

"Yeah?"

Myka tugged weary muscles into as big a smile she could muster. "Thank you."

The ache that she couldn't decide belonged to her or the Warehouse ebbed, and Claudia inclined her head with a grin. "Don't mention it."

Myka waited until the door had closed before sniffing once, twice. The rims of her eyes burned. She turned her face to the sunlight and began to cry.


End file.
